


The Secrets that You Keep

by Icarus5800



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Cheesy cheesy cheese, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Madeleine Era, Poor!Javert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus5800/pseuds/Icarus5800
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monsieur Madeleine and Inspector Javert get to know each other better.  And perhaps debate philosophy.  At some distant point in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets that You Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ragnelle (8Daenerys8)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8Daenerys8/gifts).



> Written for a kink meme prompt requesting poor!Javert. Incomplete. Just putting this on my archive so I don't forget about it.

“Inspector Javert? Are you quite certain that you are alright?”

The words vaguely penetrated the haze that was Javert’s mind, and he courageous tried for a curt nod. It came out more as a wobble instead, and the subsequent disorientation almost sent him to the floor. He valiantly remained upright.

The mayor appeared closer than he remembered, and he distantly registered a hand placed gently on his arm. He struggled to continue his customary report on the state of the town and its recent crimes, a report specifically requested by the mayor who liked to keep abreast of the happenings in Montreuil, but the words were failing him. He cannot seem to recall…who was it that broke the window of the boulangerie? Dubois? Or was it Orleans? It was Orleans, he decided. But just as he was about to inform Monsieur le Maire, who was still standing too close, of the degenerate character of certain members of the town’s citizenry, he felt a cool, calloused hand on his burning forehead. It was exceedingly comfortable, and he was unable to repress a moan, or to stop himself from leaning into the touch. All too quickly, the hand withdrew.

“Inspector!” exclaimed M. Madeleine, “You temperature is too high to be normal. Why for the love of God did you not take the day off?”

Is that concern in the man’s voice? Concern, and even anger, perhaps, but for what? His refusal to take care of himself? It hardly seemed possible, for he had suspected the man the moment he laid eyes on him and never bothered to disguise his mistrust, only employing the strictest professional courtesy when duty forced them to interact. So what cause had this man to be concerned for him? Yes, it must be no more than the conjurations of a feverish mind. Nevertheless, M. le Maire had asked a question, and he was obliged to answer. He was about to bring forth a rejoinder about how crime never sleeps, when he, to his horror, realized that he seemed to be resting his entire weight upon the mayor, who bore it without complaint, whose arms were wrapped around him as if cradling a babe, and whose lips appeared to be voicing questions that he can no longer hear. He hastily disentangled himself and took a step back, which proved to be a mistake. The sudden motion upset his already fragile balance, and he felt himself approaching the ground with alarming speed. At the last moment, a pair of strong arms caught him, and lifted him bodily into the air. The mayor rushed towards the office door, all the while calling for a carriage and a doctor. In his uncertain perception, he believed that he was being carried with one arm around his back and one his knees, like a bride to her bedchamber, and this realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Then darkness claimed him, and he knew no more.

~ * ~

The next time he regained the capacity for thought, he knew not where he was. Beneath him was a bed, only slightly larger and more comfortable than his own, and though his vision was dim, what he could see of the room gave no clue as to his whereabouts. His attempt to rise brought about a wave of nausea that had him collapsing back onto the bed in disgust, at himself and the world in general, a sort of malcontent that the sick seemed prone to acquire, and the fierce inspector, in this at least, was no exception. His movements also dislodged a folded cloth that had been resting on his forehead, and he made no effort to replace it.

Outside the small window, the wind and the snow howled, and some weak, pale winter sunlight filtered into the Spartan room. Despite the harsh conditions of the weather, the room was warm, kept so by a modest fireplace adorned only with two brightly polished silver candlesticks that rested upon the mantel. It was dusk.

In the hallway, calm, measured footsteps sounded that grew louder as they approached, and a creak announced that the door was opened. A tall figure in a plain white shirt, dark grey woolen trousers, and a matching waistcoat entered. This was the most informal dress anyone in M-sur-M, perhaps excepting his housekeeper, had seen him in, for even in the summer he was enveloped in an overcoat with a cravat secure around his throat, as if the added layers of clothing provided some shield or protection against the world. This figure was Monsieur Madeleine.

Upon seeing him, Javert uttered a groan that had nothing to do with his illness, that contained emotions bothering on insubordination. Madeleine, if anything, seemed amused.

“Not pleased to see me, Monsieur l’Inspecteur?”

Inspector Javert was, above all else, an honest man. He had never lied, would never dream of lying to a superior—and, regardless of his suspicions, Monsieur Madeleine was still such—and he was not about to start now. Yet he could not tell the truth, either, without insulting said superior. He settled for a variation of the truth.

“I am certain M. le Maire has more important business to attend to than—” here he paused, unsure of how best to continue. Taking care of his sick inspector of police? He does not even know if it had indeed been the too soft-hearted mayor who was seeing to his care, and it would be the height of presumptuousness to assume so. At last, he feebly waved his hand to indicate the general area of the bed and finished lamely, “—this.”

Madeleine smiled, strangely gentle and sad, “Other business awaits me, perhaps, but none more important.”

Despite himself, Javert felt his heart clench at the words, an unfamiliar burning starting in his eyes. His control weakened due to illness, he was forced to close them and turn away. Monsieur Madeleine, if he noticed anything out of the ordinary at all, was gracious enough to make no comment.

Closing the door behind him, the mayor moved next to Javert and placed his hand on the man’s forehead. The touch was as cool and comforting as he remembered, though he quickly supressed the thought, as he did most realizations that stirred uncomfortable feelings in his chest. Madeleine then took up the cloth that had been resting by Javert on the bed, dipped it into the basin on the bedside table, wringed and folded it, and carefully placed it back on the inspector’s forehead, brushing aside a few stray locks of hair that had been in the way. The gesture was uncommonly tender, but the coolness was a relief. The familiarity of the series of actions would attest to the fact that the mayor had indeed been the one to look after Javert for however long he had been confined here. That is another realization he had no desire to face at the moment.

“The fever appears to have at last broken, Inspector, but your temperature is still a little high. Perhaps some further bed rest would do you good.”

“How long—?” he did not recognize his own voice, dry and scratchy as it was. He allowed the mayor to help him drink some water from a glass.

“How long have you been here? Two days.”

“Two days!” the mayor appeared to wish to say something further, but he did not apologize for interrupting his superior, so excited was he in this state, “I have been too long away from my post. If you will excuse me, Monsieur le Maire, I must—”

A firm hand on his shoulder rendered his attempt to escape the bed futile.

“You would not be in this position if you took better care of yourself, my dear inspector,” the mayor gently chided.

“I…” he was about to protest that he was not a foolhardy youth that is too careless to look after even himself, but that would force him to explain to the mayor the circumstances that led to this sudden illness, and he could not contemplate the thought, let alone attempt it. So he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, and soon he was not pretending.

The mayor removed a book from the shelf and started reading. The room was silent for a long time save for the breathing of two men and the turning of pages, which joined with the howling of the winter wind to form a strange yet not unpleasant symphony that inspired a feeling that could almost be termed—peace.

~ * ~

The man was disagreeably thin.

That had been Monsieur Madeleine’s first impression when he held the inspector in his arms, and it only became more pronounced after he removed the man’s coat and vest and put him to bed in his shirtsleeves. Without his thick greatcoat, the imposing inspector was almost a skeleton of a man.

Perhaps, Madeleine thought, he was not the only one for whom clothing was an armor and a disguise. The thought aroused in him a sense of camaraderie for the man currently occupying his bed, and he chuckled to think of how Javert would react should he ever learn of this. It was strange, he mused, seeing the usually guarded man sometimes so relaxed in dreamless sleep, sometimes parading a hundred emotions across the stern features in the throes of nightmares. The latter happened more often than he would have liked, and he found in himself a heretofore non-existent curiosity about the man’s past. Previously, to him—as to most others, he suspect—the inspector was but the law. Now, having seen him at his most fragile and defenseless, he was slowly evolving into a man like any other, and yet still so undeniably unique, before his very eyes; a man with a past, a history perhaps no less painful than his own if the night terrors were any indication; a man who could feel, who could hope, who could love, who could dream—and who could fall. And despite himself, he was curious about this man. It was dangerous and foolish, perhaps, yet not more so than caring for the inspector in his own house, in his own room.

It would have been prudent, one might even call it wise, to have brought the inspector to the infirmary and left him in the care of the devoted sisters. Yet in this, as in all else, M. Madeleine’s primary concern was not for himself. He acted as he did, for he reasoned that the inspector would be loath to allow the multitude of strangers that pass through the infirmary to bear witness to his weakness and his feverish, disjointed ramblings; and should his fearsome image crumble, it would make his duty to enforce order and uphold the law all the more difficult. Thus he had taken it upon himself to care for Inspector Javert, in the privacy of his own room. And perhaps the merciful Lord does reward all the good that we do, for this selfless act quickly turned to his own benefit when he heard his own name, his true name, within Javert stream of incoherent babbling. He was now more certain than ever that this shrewd and perspicacious detective has connected the mayor with the convict, the present with the past, and he can only be thankful that no one else was allowed to hear Javert’s unconscious confessions. Yet despite this, or perhaps in some way because of it, he attended his patient with all the more gentleness and care, as a loving mother her ailing child, even while he concocted in his mind a hundred plans of escape.

None was able to detect his inner turmoil and fear, not even Inspector Javert.

Night has descended upon the town, and the only light in the room came from the merrily roaring fire. Madeleine rose from his chair by the bed, lit the two silver candlesticks and brought one to the bedside table, to ease his reading, and—as a sort of reminder, perhaps, of his duty to men. The gleam of the silver in the firelight casted an almost ethereal beauty, calming and steadying his furtive soul, soothing him with the knowledge that he was in God’s hands. I need not fear, for thou art with me.

A pained sound from the direction of the bed drew him from his contemplation of Grace and Salvation, and he glanced over to find Javert once again sucked into the bottomless pit of a nightmare. He took one of the inspector’s hands in his own, and, as he had done many times before, whispered calm, reassuring words into the man’s ear. So close, he could count his eyelashes were he so inclined, and see every detail of that face contorted in remembered or imagined agony.

 _“Non, Maman—!”_ the sleeping man cried aloud, and on the heels of the words came a single tear. Madeleine experienced a sensation curiously similar to being punched in the gut, and his hand that was holding Javert’s clenched so tight that he feared he will leave a bruise, and consciously relaxed his fingers with tremendous effort. He leaned forward to press a kiss to that wrinkled brow, and was gratified to see the frown smooth into an expression of absolute vulnerability, so open and childlike, but at least no longer afraid.

_“N’aie pas peur, mon pauvre enfant. Je devrai garder tes rêves ce soir.”_

He did not notice his form of address slipping into the more familiar _tu_ as opposed to the respectful _vous_ that he had always employed towards his inspector. He did not notice that within these few days, this man has stolen by degrees into his heart, and he would be powerless to eject him. But even if he did, he would not have wanted to.

~ * ~

The next time Inspector Javert awoke was in the middle of the night. A few rapid blinks allowed him to bring the world into focus, and what a world it was indeed! His right hand enveloped in the mayor’s, who appeared to be asleep with a book in his lap and his chin resting on his chest. The still-burning candle reflected off Madeleine’s features fetchingly. The sheer domesticity of the scene made his teeth ache.

Yet, gazing upon the mayor’s face now, so unguarded in sleep with a soft smile playing around his lips, for the first time he began to doubt his convictions. Could this man truly be the one he believed him to be? There were similarities, true, but most were superficial, while the content of their characters…he found it harder and harder to think of Madeleine’s kindness as all an act to escape justice and deceive the honest citizens of the town.

And in his delirium, he had thought he heard a warm, rich voice whispering to him, calming his distorted mind and washing away memories of a painful past as the rain washes the world of sin. And like the rain that gives the dry earth life, that voice had felt like the benediction of heaven. And therein was contained a promise of peace, of protection, and for the first time in his life he had felt _safe_ , though he did not realize its lack until now.

_If this man is indeed Jean Valjean…_

The sudden constricting in his chest made it difficult to draw breath, and he balled his hands into tight fists.

He forgot that he still held the mayor’s right hand in his own.

~ * ~

Monsieur Madeleine was startled into wakefulness by a sharp pain in his hand, and after assessing the situation, he supposed that payback was only fair, though he could not suppress a wince and a groan.

“My apologies, Monsieur le Maire, I—!”

He calmed the distraught man with a raised hand—the uninjured one—and said with a teasing smile, “Next time you should wish to wake me, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, you need only call my name.”

Lowered eyes. Lips pressed in a tight line. A soft, dejected voice. “Yes, Monsieur.”

“Javert…I am not angry with you. My words were meant in jest, and you need not be so carefully formal towards me.”

The man did not respond, rigid tension apparent in his body despite his supine position.

Madeleine sighed. “Ah, well, you must be hungry, having eaten nothing but thin broth and water for two days. My housekeeper is asleep right now, but I will see if I am able to prepare something for you in the kitchen.”

That, at least, drew a reaction. “That is not necessary, Monsieur le Maire, I am not—”

This time, it was not the mayor who interrupted the police inspector, but the growling of his own stomach, belying his brave words. Javert flushed in shame and anger.

The mayor found himself hiding a smile to spare the proud man further embarrassment. “Hush, you. I will be gone only a moment, but call me if you find yourself in need of anything.” And he stood, withdrawing his hand from Javert’s, which until then neither man had realized were still entwined.

Javert did not regret the loss.


End file.
